


Asphyxiation

by we_all_fall



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Carbon Dioxide Poisoning, Crying Sam Winchester, Dying Sam Winchester, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Sam Winchester, Prayer, Sick Sam Winchester, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 16:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16747510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_all_fall/pseuds/we_all_fall
Summary: Set between seasons nine and ten. Spoilers for season nine.Sam is captured by demons and trapped in an air-pocket deep underground. With despair setting in and no way out, what can he do?





	Asphyxiation

**Author's Note:**

> I still can't figure out how to make this site do italics. Help!

Something hard and jagged cut into his cheek. He rolled over, but the ground on the other side was just as uncomfortable. His eyes open unwillingly. He paused. He couldn’t tell the difference between eyes closed and eyes open. He blinked his eyes shut and waited for a moment before opening them again. It was still impossible to see anything. So that meant that either it was dark or there was something wrong with his eyes. He lifted his hand and felt across his face. The shapes were right, and there was no pain. So it was unlikely that there was something wrong with his eyes. Which meant that there was no light. Alright.   
What was he doing somewhere like this? He thought back… he’d been hunting for Dean. The demons had taken Dean, and he had to find him as soon as possible. But then- he’d caught a demon and tortured her. He’d had to know how to find Dean. But she’d had friends, and there were too many of them. They’d overpowered him with sheer numbers, and they’d laughed. And they’d thrown him in a cage in the earth, a reference to the time he’d spent being tortured in Lucifer’s Cage in hell.   
So that was where he was now. Trapped deep in the earth by a band of demons. 'Well,' he told himself sternly, 'it could be worse.' He could be back in hell, trapped with Lucifer and being actively tortured by the literal devil. Compared to the year and a half hell time he’d spent in the Cage, this was nothing. And even if he couldn’t get out he’d die in under a week from lack of water and go… somewhere. Heaven or hell, he wasn’t sure which. The thoughts made his head hurt.   
But he would try to get out before he thought of death. He lifted his hand and felt for a ceiling. There was nothing directly above him. He reached up a little farther and felt more jagged, uneven rock like the floor. It was about four feet above the ground at the high point. He went sideways, hands out in front of him, scooting awkwardly across the floor as he couldn’t stand. At least he could sit up straight. It was only a little ways to the wall. The ceiling was lower by the wall, not even a full three feet high. There was no clear spot where the floor became the wall or the wall became the ceiling, just ragged, messy rock. It didn’t take him long to map out the entire place. It was like a giant ovular coffin. The comparison made his heart sink.   
It was hard to breathe. He thought for a few moments of confusion that he was having a panic attack, but that didn’t make sense. And then it came to him in a flash. Carbon dioxide poisoning. Damn it. He felt like crying. He tried to remember the symptoms, an old list from a project back in college. He hadn’t expected to need that information for any reason, and now it was critical for his survival. A mixed up list of overwhelming symptoms flashed before his eyes.   
Headaches. Fatigue. Shortness of breath or rapid breaths. Mood swings. High blood pressure. Clumsiness. Dizziness. Memory problems. Nausea. Flushed skin. Irregular heart rate. Judgment errors. Convulsions. Chest pain. Unconsciousness. Confusion. Malaise. Hallucinations. Twitching. Panic. Vision problems.   
And suddenly he was laughing. A choking, broken, highly hysterical laugh. He wasn’t sure why the idea of having vision problems in the darkness was so funny, but it was. Maybe it was the mood swings starting. He had to get out. But how long did he have? It wasn’t long. It took Sam longer than it normally would to go through some rough mental calculations based off the size of the room and how long he guessed he’d been there already, but eventually it came out to about eight hours. Eight hours to live. And he wasn’t sure how much of that time he would spend unconscious, so that was- well, it was pretty normal for a Winchester.   
He set about trying to get out. The rocks were a jagged mess, but maybe they were a diggable jagged mess. He didn’t want to risk the roof collapsing and killing him, but then he didn’t have any other options and there was nothing left to lose. Inaction would kill him almost as quickly as a cave in. He crawled over to sit at the edge of his cage and picked at the wall. His fingers jerked strangely and it was hard to keep track of what he was doing. The rock cut his fingers. He wasn’t sure how long he spent clawing fruitlessly at the wall, but it seemed like forever. His fingers were wet with his own blood from all the tiny cuts he’d gotten, and he was an inch away from crying. It was hard to breathe. His head throbbed.   
He gave up when his head started spinning dizzily. He couldn’t keep track of which way was up and it was hard to remember what he was doing. His hands hurt. He started crying. He had a small pile of sharp pebbles for his troubles. He tried to think. He was trapped, and he needed a way out. Trying to crawl or break through wasn’t going to work, so he needed another way. Magic? He had no ingredients and no spell book. What did he have on him? Matches. A digital watch. A solid silver butter knife. He’d lost his phone and all his weapons to the demons when they’d captured him.   
None of those things were of any use. So, think. He could pray to Castiel. Cas would hear him, and he’d try to help. But Cas had lost his wings in the fall, and the Enochian symbols Castiel had engraved into Sam’s ribs would keep Cas from being able to find him, anyway. Maybe Sam could find a way to break his own ribs badly enough that Castiel would be able to find him, but there was still the problem of distance and how Castiel was going to get this far down. The demons had boasted they were putting him miles underground. Demons lied, so it might not be true, but still… Castiel wasn’t anywhere near him. And he didn’t know what he could do to get the symbols off his ribs.   
Sam’s stomach started hurting. Great. Just great. He felt like crying again. The feeling in his stomach got worse, and he got scared he’d vomit. He did not need the stench of vomit on top of the horrible closeness of the limited air he had left. If he was going to choke to death it would not be in a pool of his own vomit.   
The contents of Sam’s stomach forced itself up his throat, and he tried to keep it down but it wouldn’t stop. He coughed his breakfast up onto the rocky ground. His throat burned. He’d lost that little battle, just like he’d overall lost the battle to keep himself alive. He was going to die, and he was probably headed straight back to Lucifer in the Cage. There was nothing he could do.   
He gave up. It was over. All he could do now was wait for a Reaper to come for him. And with that realization came a strange feeling: relief. He could finally stop fighting a hopeless, never-ending battle against insurmountable odds that seemed to grow more horrific every time he turned around. It was over. He’d wanted to die in the Trials, and although he’d chickened out then now he didn’t have a choice. And, more importantly, Dean wasn’t there to talk him out of it. Dean had abandoned Sam and run off with Crowley; he didn’t care anymore. The only person who cared that Sam could think of was Castiel, and there was nothing he could do to help.   
It made sense. Sam was Lucifer’s Vessel, the Boy with the Demon Blood, the one who’d started the apocalypse and set Lucifer free. He should die alone. No wonder Dean had finally left him. Nobody good could stand being around Sam and all his mess. Everyone who loved him died. He’d be better off joining their ranks than sticking around on Earth, bothering people who could otherwise really live. He hoped Dean would be alright without him.   
Sam lay down on the rough ground to wait for his Reaper to come. He ignored the throbbing in his chest, unsure if it was from physical pain or emotional pain. It didn’t matter. His body convulsed painfully, and his head knocked against the hard ground. The convulsions stopped after a few miserable and terrifying moments. He sat up weakly, dazed and confused. His shoulder knocked against the wall, and he heard cloth tear as he struggled to get away from the jagged rock. And then he was vomiting again, and it hurt. There were tears on his cheeks, but he thought they were just from vomiting. He wasn’t sure anymore. He wasn’t sure about anything anymore.   
The vomiting slowed down to hacking, choked coughs. He couldn’t breathe. The air was nasty and there didn’t seem to be enough of it. His breath came in labored gasps. His head hurt, and he couldn’t think. He collapsed. He was so tired. He just wanted to go to sleep. His head hurt too much to allow that. What was he doing here? He needed help.   
“Cas,” Sam gasped out, “Castiel. Help. I- I’m dying. No, wait, there’s- there’s nothing- you can do. Just- wanna say goodbye. Tell- tell Dean I’m sorry- sorry I couldn’t save him.” Sam choked up, and that, combined with the heavy carbon dioxide in the air, made speech impossible for a while.   
His body convulsed. He choked on air and thrashed desperately against the walls. When his body calmed down a little there was stomach bile on his face from where he’d thrown up. He was an absolute mess. But he had more that he had to tell Castiel, so he had to stay awake and alert. He struggled against the poison in his system, but concentration was so hard and he couldn’t make anything do what he wanted. He tried clumsily to wipe his face off and just managed to slap himself in the ear with a dried blood covered hand. He wished for just one breath of clear air. He hadn’t realized how precious being able to breathe properly was until he couldn’t anymore. He tried to think. He needed to talk to Castiel. Right.   
“Cas?” His voice was weak. “I should’ve- been a better friend. You’re all I’ve- got left- and I haven’t been there for you since- the thing with- Dean dying and- coming back and- everything. You’re- family- Cas, I love you- you’re like- another brother to me. I’m so-” he broke off in a fit of uncontrollable coughing.   
More stomach acid made an appearance in the cage. Sam was so tired. He’d told Castiel everything of massive importance, hadn’t he? Could he rest now? No. He had to get out. He threw himself at the wall. It had to break, it had to break! This couldn’t all be real. He threw himself against the broken rock again and again, but his effort was futile.   
He collapsed, sobbing helplessly. His heart was pounding erratically, and it hurt so much. Everything hurt. His whole body was twitching uncontrollably, and he was tired. It was so hard to think. There had to be something to do… didn’t there? Maybe there didn’t. He didn’t know. 'Oh, God, why is it so hard to think?' He choked in a shallow breath. His head spun. 'God, help me.' Praying- praying was safe. It was something he’d done so often before he ran into the angels and all of this mess had eroded his faith. He clung to it now, with the realization that he was going to die and this was the only thing that could actually make a difference for him.   
'I’m scared. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to go back to hell. I can’t go back- Lucifer’s there! I can’t go back to hell. Save me. Help me. You’re all I’ve got left anymore, and I know you’re real. So, if my life’s worth anything to you, then heal me. Please-'  
Sam gave up. He didn’t know what to say. He hovered for a while on the edge of consciousness, wondering vaguely what it would be like if he ended up in heaven. And then he was vomiting again, and more bile came up and mixed with the rest of the mess. It was icky. He realized his hands were covered in a slimy mix of vomit and blood, and that filled him with so much disgust he ended up vomiting again. He coughed for a few moments after it was over, then set out to try to clean off his hands. For some reason having clean hands seemed vastly important in that moment.   
He patiently felt his way across his jacket until he came to a relatively clean patch. He tried to wipe his hands off on the cloth, but he was shaky and quivering too badly for it to be really effective. He couldn’t get his hands clean. He started crying from the sheer despair that brought him. He cried, and he dealt with more convulsions. He vomited. He threw himself against the rock wall in a wild attempt to get out.   
He was lying limply on the ground in a dazed heap. His breathing was quick and shallow. His head spun and coherent thought was hopeless. He felt sick and achy; pain bit through his torso and burned in his skull. He wished he were just dead already. Anything had to be better than this much pain and misery and emptiness. It was then that he heard the clear noise of someone else’s breaths. They were smooth, quiet and even, at least compared to Sam’s own. He struggled to sit up and overbalanced, collapsing sideways into a pool of vomit. He dissolved into hysterical giggles for no apparent reason and it took him several minutes to settle down enough to take note of his surroundings.   
“Who’s ‘ere?” Sam asked, lips forming the words clumsily in the breaks between his gasps.   
“Sammy?” Dean’s collected voice asked.   
“De?” Sam gasped out. He went limp with shock, then struggled futilely against his exhaustion. He wanted to get up. “Dean?” he whined, hopeful that it had been more than his imagination.   
“I’m here, Sammy,” Dean’s voice said. It was the soft, gentle, almost mother-like voice he used when Sam was badly sick. It was and always would be the most comforting sound in the world to Sam.   
He crawled across the jagged rocks to where Dean’s voice had come from and tried to find him. Nobody was there. He frantically waved his arms about, trying to catch a hold of his brother. But he couldn’t change the fact that Dean wasn’t there. He screamed in panic. He hit the wall nearest to where Dean’s voice had come from. Pain lanced down his beaten up arm. It helped him feel a little more alive for a broken moment, so he hit the wall again. And again, again, again, again. Tears streaked down his cheeks. It felt like forever before he was lucid enough to realize that hitting a wall and screaming was no good. He collapsed on the ground.   
For a while the only movement he made was shaky, weak gasping. He got caught in convulsions and he vomited again. He didn’t really care. His mind was off floating away to somewhere where this pain wasn’t a reality. It wasn’t like in the Cage, where Lucifer had kept Sam’s mind pinned in the present to make sure he felt every moment of torture. This was escapable. Sam was in the bunker, researching a nice, normal case for him to investigate with his brother. It was looking like a cursed object or witches were the most likely culprits. It was a nice, normal day…   
Sam’s daydream fell apart when his thoughts lost the coherency needed to be anywhere. There was pain and hurt, and he wanted something- something- air. He wanted to be able to breathe. He was coughing and gagging like he was vomiting again, but there was nothing left in his stomach to come up. His body was twitching. The rocks dug into his back and one arm where it was thrashing against the wall. His head was lost in a shimmery cloud of agony and weirdness. His forehead burned.   
Someone was yelling- no, it was a hallucination. He remembered those were supposed to happen. Oh, right, he was dying. That made sense. He was dying. Everything, even the pain, seemed faded. His body wasn’t thrashing anymore, he didn’t think. His breathing was shallow, so shallow… was it there at all?   
“I’m sorry,” he tried to whisper. He wasn’t sure if his lips moved. “Heal me. Dying- help. Can’t think- forgive me…”   
If his eyes slipped shut, he didn’t notice. The carbon dioxide was in his system. Sam’s breaths stopped. It was over, but he thought he saw a bright light above him. The light grew brighter and closer as his soul slipped from his body and floated upwards. The light of heaven.

**Author's Note:**

> I was upset when I wrote this. It's kind of a 'if I slowly kill my favorite character it will make me feel better or at least get it out of my system' fic. If anybody actually likes this kind of thing, which I doubt, leave a comment and I can post more of this or something similar.


End file.
